Chapter 6 - THE MORNING IN THE SUNROOM
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The morning sun broke through the autumn fog over Lake Michigan, casting long ribbons of golden light across the estate’s lawns.
The smell of fresh dark-roast coffee and blueberry pancakes drifted through the grand kitchen of the Moretti mansion.
For the first time in eleven months, I woke up not to the harsh buzzing of an alarm clock in the basement staff quarters, but to the gentle warmth of silk sheets.
I lay in the massive king-sized bed, wearing a soft, oversized cashmere sweater Dominic had left on the bedside table for me.
Beside me, curled in a little ball of warmth, was Noah.
His little wooden horse was clutched securely against his chest, its broken ear resting against his cheek.
He looked so peaceful, so safe, that my eyes filled with tears of pure, unadulterated relief.
The heavy wooden door of the bedroom clicked open softly.
Dominic walked in, carrying a large silver breakfast tray laden with fresh berries, warm croissants, and a glass of cold milk.
He wore a simple white linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and dark denim jeans, looking years younger without the rigid armor of his three-piece suits.
When his eyes found mine across the room, a warm, breathtaking smile transformed his rugged features.
“Good morning, beautiful,” Dominic whispered, walking over and setting the tray down on the wide mahogany nightstand.
“Dominic, you shouldn't be serving breakfast,” I said softly, sitting up and pulling the duvet around my waist.
“I am still getting used to not having to clock in at six.”
Dominic sat on the edge of the mattress, leaning in to press a gentle, lingering kiss to my forehead.
“You will never clock in for anyone again, Claire,” he said, his hand coming to rest over mine on the covers.
“This house belongs to you and Noah.”
Noah stirred, rubbing his eyes with the back of his little fist, and blinked up at the tall man sitting beside his mother.
“Good morning, buddy,” Dominic smiled, reaching over to ruffle Noah’s messy morning curls.
Noah sat up, sniffing the air with wide, hungry eyes.
“Is that pancakes?” the little boy asked, pointing at the golden stack on the silver platter.
“Extra blueberries,” Dominic chuckled, scooping Noah up in one arm and setting him gently on his lap.
“Just the way your mom used to make them for me.”
Noah looked up at Dominic’s face, then reached out to touch the dark ink of the rose tattoo on Dominic’s forearm.
“Are you really my daddy?” Noah asked, his innocent voice carrying no hesitation, only honest curiosity.
Dominic’s throat worked hard as he swallowed down a wave of raw emotion.
He pulled the little wooden horse from Noah’s hands, turning it over to show the bottom of the front hoof.
Carved deeply into the hard pine wood were three tiny, weathered initials: D. M. Jr.
“I made this horse for you before you were born, Noah,” Dominic whispered, his voice trembling with immense love.
“I waited five years to find you.”
“And I am never, ever going to let anyone take me away from you again.”
Noah looked at the carved letters, then looked into Dominic’s dark eyes, seeing the exact mirror of his own face.
A bright, radiant smile broke across my son’s face.
He threw his arms around Dominic’s neck, hugging him tightly with all the strength of his little four-year-old body.
Dominic closed his eyes, burying his face in his son’s neck, holding him so tight it looked as though he would never let go.
Over Noah’s small shoulder, Dominic’s eyes met mine.
The silent promise in his gaze was louder than any oath sworn in a cathedral.
The pain of the past was being washed away with every passing second of sunshine.
We were a family, forged in fire and reunited by truth.
Suddenly, a low, respectful knock sounded at the bedroom door.
Marcus stood in the doorway, his face unusually grim.
“Boss,” Marcus said quietly.
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“Salvatore Bellini just escaped his transport convoy outside Milwaukee.”
“He’s on the run, and he has thirty heavily armed mercenaries with him.”
